


Room Service

by awed_frog



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon Compliant, Cas Knows Anyway, Dean Just Can't, Episode: s11e07 Plush, M/M, Missing Scene, Panic Attacks, Past Sexual Abuse, Slurs, Some angst, Some feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-19
Updated: 2015-11-19
Packaged: 2018-05-02 09:50:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5243828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awed_frog/pseuds/awed_frog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean always forgets about it, because it does funny things to his brain to remember what Cas actually <em>is</em>, to fully understand that everything he loves about Cas - his messy hair and his stupid sandpaper voice and the way he looks at Dean - is actually an illusion, because Cas is not human, he’s vast and unknowable and Dean can never, never hope to -</p>
            </blockquote>





	Room Service

**Author's Note:**

> Rated M for mentions of abuse.

Dean is just stepping out of the shower when there is a knock on the door. Swearing under his breath, he pulls a towel around his waist, walks out, and steps by the bed to pick up his gun.

“Who’s there?”, he calls, cocking it; and then he lowers it when a vaguely familiar voice answers, “Agent Savage?”

 _How does no one ever notice_ , Dean wonders, idly, stilly trying to understand who’s standing on the other side of the door.

“Give me a sec”, he says, and he starts to move towards his discarded clothes.

“It’s kind of urgent,” says the voice again, and this time Dean can place it – it’s that quarterback, Brock something, and just like that, Dean goes from irritated to combat ready, because what the hell is this kid doing here? Did anything else happen? 

Frowning, Dean adjusts his towel and opens the door, his gun at the ready.

But Brock is alone. And he doesn’t look scared at all. Or upset. Or how someone would look if he had a homicidal bunny on his tracks, or something.

Dean lowers his gun.

“Yes?” he says, and the kid looks him up and down and then just pushes past him, inside his motel room.

Which is weird. And makes no sense at all. In fact, Dean is so surprised he just lets it happen, and when he finally close the door and turns around, he sees the kid look down, kind of pointedly, at the weapons in Dean’s duffel bag.

“You come prepared,” he says, and Dean shakes his head.

“That’s the job,” he answers, curtly, and let’s hope Brock hasn’t seen the grenades, because, really, there’s a lot Dean can lie his ass off about, but grenades are not exactly standard FBI equipment.

Still frowning, he walks forward, lets his gun drop inside the bag, and then closes it firmly.

“So, where’s the fire? What you doing here?” he says, straightening up again and sort of glaring at Brock, because this kid is kind of a douchebag and Sam and Donna are waiting for him in the diner - Dean has been promised the best apple caramel pie in the state and by _God_ , he _will_ have it.

Again, Brock looks him up and down. If Dean didn’t know any better, he could almost think that -

“I thought you had more questions for me,” he says, sounding half earnest and half smartass.

Dean is getting more annoyed by the minute. Also, he’s not precisely happy to be half naked in front of a perfect stranger. He knows he’s being unreasonable, that he could tackle this kid with one arm tied behind his back, but still. Showing skin is still - wrong.

(It never used to be wrong before, but now-)

“I don't. And I’m off duty now, so.”

This was intended as a _Get the hell out of my room_ , but Brock hears it as an invitation. He takes a step forward, and then another.

“Off duty, eh?” he smirks, and the he actually raises his hand and he - he _touches_ Dean.

 _Fucking_ hell.

His heart beating way too fast, Dean looks down - looks at Brock’s hand on his chest, at how Brock's thumb is caressing the skin; how it's getting closer and closer to his nipple.

“That’s not what I meant,” he says, but he doesn’t move away.

“Oh, I know what you meant,” says Brock, and Dean sees it happen, but can’t stop it.

The fucking kid closes the distance between them and starts to mouth at his collarbone, then licks his way towards Dean’s ear.

Dean closes his eyes, tries to breathe.

He’s mainly panicking, because of course he’d checked out the guy back at the gym (Hello? A fucking bench press _champion_?) but he’d thought he’d been subtle about it, and Sam had been standing right next to him - Dean suddenly wonders if this is why Sam decided not to come back to the motel, to wait at the diner with Donna instead - if Sam thinks this is what Dean does in his free time - that his older brother just cruises around and picks up random -

But at the same time, Dean is also starting to get hard. This guy is gorgeous, after all, and what he’s doing right now - licking the shell of Dean’s ear, his hands warm and enticing on his skin - Dean can’t -

And then he realizes Brock is speaking to him. He’s saying shameful, filthy things which go straight to his groin, and he’s also -

He’s naming _prices_. He’s -

For a split second, it’s like the room flips around them - now it's Dean’s hands on someone’s chest, and it’s his own voice, low and playful, to offer suggestions and promises an easy paradise.

_Whatever you want me to do, I can do it._

And then everything is real again, and Dean pushes the kid away from him, hard.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asks, a bit raggedly.

“You know what.”

Brock looks a lot less handsome when he’s pissed. Still, he’s nothing if not a professional. Slowly, he starts smiling again.

“I saw the way you were looking at me back at the gym. I can make it happen, man.”

Dean takes a step back and he unconsciously put a hand on the edge of the towel, securing it in place.

“Do you even like me?” he hears himself saying.

“I like you well enough,” says the kid, licking his lips. “It’s not often I get guys as buff as you.”

Yeah, this is still not happening. It was bad enough that for a split second Dean had thought this was real - that the guy _wanted_ him - but now he knows this is a _job_ , there’s no way. None. 

And what the hell is this guy even doing? A star quarterback, turning tricks?

“What happened? You a gambler, or something?” he asks, and the guy actually laughs.

“Are you of _those_?” he says. “Do I have to tell you a sob story to get you to come in my mouth?”

The thing flashes in front of Dean’s eyes, sweet and tantalizing and full of possibilities, and Dean pushes it aside.

“Just tell me the truth,” he growls, and he may be half naked and weirded out, but he’s still a damn hunter, and Brock hears the iron in his voice, loud and clear.

“I need money for my roids,” he says, stiffly. “My old man is keeping me on a tight leash.”

_The stupid bastard._

“That stuff is dangerous.”

Brock looks like he wants to argue, but then he switches tack.

“Look, I didn’t come here to talk. I came here to fuck. Do you want to or not?”

Dean clenches his jaw so hard he feels his teeth grinding.

“Look, I don't - I can help you,” he says.

“I don’t need _help_. I need _money_.”

Dean knows the words. He’s said them before - shouted them, actually, at the kindly man in a Ranger uniform - he can still see the little, darkened office - and the guy just didn't _get_ it - Dean was _fine_ , perfectly fine. And he was okay with it, because Sammy needed -

“So, are you up for it?”

Dean focuses on the kid again. 

“You don’t want to do this,” he says. “It's never a good idea.”

And, God, he knew this was a mistake, he knew this would get ugly, and it does.

“Yeah? And how would _you_ know?”

Dean doesn’t answer. Brock stares at him, and now he’s getting angry. His eyes move from Dean’s face down to his chest - hesitate on the tattoo - and then, in what is almost professional interest, pause on the white towel, seem to guess at what’s underneath. 

“Or maybe you _do_ know,” he says, slowly. “Maybe you were a pretty boy, back then.”

_He’s a pretty boy, isn’t he?_

_Hank, dammit, keep him still -_

_Come on, kid, don’t make me hurt you. You’ll get your money, I promise. We just want to have some fun._

"Look -"

“Yeah, okay. So what? You and me - we're different, man. You know why?”

The room is definitely smaller than it was. Darker, too. Dean tries, and fails, to breathe.

_That's it. Easy does it._

“Because I’m not a damn faggot,” Brock says, and it’s the poison in his voice to wake up Dean, to bring him back. “So keep your fucking opinions to yourself.” 

There's still too many damn people in this room. The walls are closing in. And it's fucking cold - Dean's hair is still wet, and all of a sudden he's freezing. And this fucking kid - Dean forces himself to relax, to open his palm against the rough texture of the towel, to focus on it, to remember what's real and what isn't, because he knows that if he acts on his instincts, he will kill this kid, right here, right now.

Hell, he might even enjoy it.

“Get _out_ ,” he says, his voice very low, and it’s possible Brock has a lick of sense after all, because as soon as he hears the gale and the storm inside the words, he moves away.

“You make me _sick_ ,” he says, and then he leaves, slamming the door behind him.

Dean stares at it for a long moment, and then he takes a step forward to get his clothes. The distance between the bed and the chair, however, was way wider than he’d anticipated. He stumbles, and then falls to his knees on the dirty carpet, something deep and black inside him - something loud, something which will not be ignored or pushed back - Dean tastes bile in his mouth and forces it down - he’s not a pussy, he will not - he will _not_ -

His phone rings.

 _Sam_ , Dean thinks, because Sam and Donna are waiting for him, and right now, that diner seems as remote as the bloody moon, and he can’t -

His fingers trembling slightly, he pulls his jeans off the chair, fishes the phone of the pocket.

 _Castiel_ , says the screen, in tiny white letters.

Dean stares at it, and then he takes a deep breath and answers it.

“Hey,” he says, trying to sound normal.

“Dean,” says Cas, in his usual deep voice. There are sounds around him, something like a low engine. “Dean, you called me. Is everything okay?”

Dean closes his eyes. This makes no sense at all.

“What are you talking about?”

There is a shuffling sound, as if Cas is walking, and the noise grows dimmer.

“Dean, you called me,” says Cas again, and this time Dean gets it.

The bastard can sense his emotions.

Dean always forgets about it, because it does funny things to his brain to remember what Cas actually _is_ , to fully understand that everything he loves about Cas - his messy hair and his stupid sandpaper voice and the way he looks at Dean - is actually an illusion, because Cas is not human, he’s vast and unknowable and Dean can never, never hope to -

And thinking about Cas when he’s upset is a very bad habit. He started doing it in Purgatory, and now he can’t seem to turn it off. He didn’t even realize he was doing it, in fact, and he probably wasn’t - he wasn’t thinking about Cas, exactly - he'd been panicking and afraid and _alone_ -

But this is still dangerous. And stupid. He must be more careful.

Dean closes his eyes, centres himself, and opens them again.

“Everything is fine, Cas,” he says, picking himself off the floor and stepping into a clean pair of boxers. “What about you? What's that noise?”

“I’m on a ferry,” Cas says, and even if it’s a perfectly clear and matter of fact answer, Dean still hears the _Don’t bullshit me_ tone underneath, and hopes that Cas will let it slide.

“On a ferry?” he says, trying to distract him, and it sort of works.

“Yes. I followed a lead up the Turkish coast, and then I decided to check this other manuscript in Athens. A ferry seemed the quickest way to get there.”

Dean tries to picture a map of Europe, but it's nowhere near as detailed enough to have an idea of where Cas is.

The thought is strangely unsettling.

“Awesome,” he says, and then he adds, despite himself, “You’re still coming back, though?”

“I will be landing in Kansas City in three days, yes,” says Cas, and his voice is softer now. “A very nice lady from the travel agency changed my flight from Jerusalem to Athens.”

“Awesome,” says Dean again.

He checks his watch. He’s late for dinner. He should hang up, get dressed. It’s not exactly warm enough to stand around in his underwear.

“What do you see?” he asks, picking up a t-shirt.

Cas hesitates.

“There are islands everywhere,” he says, in the end. “Of course, you wouldn’t see them. It’s night here.”

“Is it?”

“Three in the morning, yes.”

 _Sorry for calling you_ , Dean wants to say. And also: _You should get some sleep_.

But he can’t say either, because Cas is not human, and in moments like this one, Dean is not so sure about himself, either.

“You would see the Milky Way, though,” Cas adds. “There are no lights out at sea, and the stars are very bright. It's truly beautiful.”

Dean feels that thing in his throat again, only this time it’s warm, not cold. 

It still makes him feel like he can’t breathe, though.

“I wish you had come with me,” says Cas, bravely ignoring Dean’s silence. “You and Sam,” he amends, as though afraid he was being impolite, and Dean smiles.

“Next time, buddy,” he says, pushing back towards this scary thing now warming him up from the inside out. “As soon as this is over, we will -”

There are so many ways to end that sentence. 

Dean licks his lips, passes his left hand through his hair.

“I’ll come pick you up, how’s that?” he says instead. “Just text me the details.”

“Dean, I -” says Cas, and Dean knows he’s about to say something stupid, because Cas _knows_ him, knows everything that ever happened to him and he tends to mention the wrong stuff at the wrong time and Dean can’t talk about it, not now, not ever.

“Goodnight, Cas,” he says, and then he hangs up and turns his phone around in his fingers, giving up to this feeling he can’t put into words.

 _Be safe_ , he thinks, closing his eyes, and he sort of knows Cas can hear him, because praying is about trust and hope and love, not rosary beads. _Be careful and do what you have to do and then come back to me._

**Author's Note:**

> So, well. This is canon,right? This actually happened? Or it's just me? Because Dean was so GAY in this episode - so _obvious_ in checking out that guy, that really - _surely_ EVERYBODY has seen it? Surely they announced it on the freaking _news_ , right in between _The world is doomed_ and _And now the weather: rain of blood with a chance of locusts_?
> 
> Surely they said it, loud and clear? _Latest from Minnesota: Dean Winchester likes men_?
> 
> Guys, I don’t know about you, but I am closely approaching the point of no return here. Because, look, I am a sweet and trusty person and I am ready to read Dean’s reaction to a teenage Amara as fear; and I’m excited about the archangels coming back (just not Michael or Raphael, please?); and I’m happy (very, very happy) that they now bother to justify Cas’ absence, thereby keeping him way more in character than he was the whole of last year ( _Yeah, Dean is the most important thing in my life and I gave up Heaven for him but unfortunately I've forgotten what his voice sounds like - whoopsie._ ). And I liked every episode so far, I really did. _Baby_ was outstanding, of course, but the others were good as well. 
> 
> But, really, this bullshit with Dean’s sexuality has to end. The circus act with Cas was bad enough, but now he's _openly_ checking out a guy? In front of Sam? Come out or cut it out, Dean. It has gone beyond whatever, now - we’re in some kind of parallel reality. It saddens me to say this, but I think I’ll give them till the end of this season to resolve this matter, and if they don’t, then I’ll quit the show as well. I mean, at this point, the whole thing is offensive for any viewer, let alone queer ones. This is not subtext we’re seeing. This is fucking text, so own up to it already.


End file.
